


Battered and Wrecked, I Come to You First

by queerofthedagger



Series: Merlin Stories [10]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Caring Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Domestic Fluff, Don't copy to another site, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Getting Together, Light Angst, M/M, Protective Merlin (Merlin), Slice of Life, Smitten Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Uther Pendragon's A+ Parenting (Merlin)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-12 12:01:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28885026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queerofthedagger/pseuds/queerofthedagger
Summary: Life has a habit of throwing challenges at anyone. Some are almost mundane, like surviving finals or breaking your wrist in a bike crash.  Others are much harder, like standing up to your father and making your own path. All of them, though, are easier to bear if you have someone who sticks with you through hell or highwater.Or—five times Arthur shows in his own way that he's there when Merlin needs him, and one time Merlin does the same for him. A study in love languages.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Series: Merlin Stories [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1728040
Comments: 33
Kudos: 250
Collections: Merlin Bingo, Tavernfest Round 2: The Five Love Languages





	Battered and Wrecked, I Come to You First

**Author's Note:**

> I guess it was only a matter of time until I wrote a modern AU. Funnily enough, this was never supposed to be this long but what else is new—the boys never do as they're told. This whole thing came into existence because I wanted to write the very last scene. Then I realised that I could make it into a fill for the current Tavern Tale round, Love Languages, and here we are. 
> 
> This also fills the "Taking care of somebody" square on my Merlin Bingo card. 
> 
> Many thanks to [Shadow_Hole](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadow_Hole/pseuds/Shadow_Hole%22) for the fantastically quick beta and fixing all my commas. ❤️ All remaining mistakes are my own. 
> 
> The title comes from The Odyssey.
> 
> Please do not repost my work anywhere or list it on goodreads (or similar sites).

> **_i. —acts of service  
>  _ **

Arthur is lying in bed, a steaming mug of tea next to him and his well-worn copy of War and Peace leaning heavily against his legs.

He’s just starting to get lost in the open plains of Austerlitz when the vibrating of his phone, lost somewhere in the mess of blankets, pulls him back to 21st century London.

For a moment, he contemplates ignoring it; it’s Friday night, and chances are high that it’s Morgana, trying once more to get him to go out. Arthur has no intention whatsoever to do so—he just handed in a major paper on yet another topic that he couldn’t care less about, and all he wants is to forget about assets and losses and the intricate mechanics of the stock market.

His phone keeps buzzing though, and with a sigh, he marks his place on the page and digs through the blankets until he finds it.

It’s not Morgana’s name flashing over the display. It’s Merlin’s, the ridiculous selfie they had taken at a festival last summer blinking up at him, the one Merlin set as his contact picture at some point, and Arthur’s helpless against the way his heart skips a beat.

He’s helpless, too, against immediately taking the call and the sliver of warmth settling contentedly in his chest at Merlin calling him even though Arthur knows that he went to the pub tonight.

“Merlin.”

“Arthur, Arthur, hello! Did I wake you? I didn’t wake you, right? I know you said you were planning to read, and you always pull worse all-nighters when reading than you do for—”

“You didn’t wake me, don’t worry. You sound drunker than you probably should be, though.”

“I’m not—well yes, I absolutely am. Uh, wait for a—”

There’s a rustling sound, the distant noises of music and voices talking, and Arthur waits. He’s not sure if he should be annoyed or amused. The smile tugging at the corner of his mouth would probably like to call bullshit, but nobody’s here to witness his infuriating fondness, so Arthur’s going to do what he does best—ignore it.

“Arthur? Right, sorry, I’m—I have a bit of a problem, actually?”

Any trace of amusement evaporates, and Arthur sits up straighter. “Are you alright? Weren’t you out with—”

“I’m fine, Arthur, just…”

He waits, but nothing else is coming through the line but for the background noises. “Merlin?”

There’s a huff that nearly sounds like a growl, and when Merlin speaks again, Arthur can make out the petulant frustration underneath of which only the truly drunk are capable of.

“Okay so, I’m drunk, more than drunk to be honest, because Morgana kept buying shots and you know how I get with tequila. This wouldn’t be a problem if I could get a cab home, but some absolute _bastard_ stole my money because I’m drunk—or maybe I lost it but honestly, it’s one of the few things I do take care of, and the metro doesn’t run anymore, Morgana disappeared, and if I call Gwen or Lance, they’re going to hold me a lecture, and if I call Gwaine he’s only going to try and rope me into more—”

“ _Mer_ lin,” Arthur interrupts the increasingly fast rambling, and he has to swallow down the laughter that’s threatening to spill out of his throat. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. You’re at the Rising Sun, right?”

Merlin sighs deeply, and Arthur can picture the way his shoulders slump, how a small smile spreads over his face.

“Yeah, I’m—yeah. Thanks, Arthur, I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Fortunately, Arthur is spared having to come up with an answer as Merlin cuts the connection right after.

Lingering concern still simmers underneath his exasperation, and he doesn’t waste any time as he grabs a jumper, his phone, and his car keys before stumbling out of his flat. It’s not like Merlin to get this drunk, to risk losing control to the degree of needing help from anyone.

They have that in common, Arthur thinks, and then pushes the question of why tonight was different away as he starts the car.

The streets are blessedly empty except for the occasional group of drunk students, and he even finds a parking spot only a minute away from the Rising Sun.

When he crosses the street, he sees Merlin already standing outside. He’s leaning against the brick wall of the building, his worn leather jacket pulled closed over his chest and his head tipped back. The fluorescent light of the neon signs is moulding his features into something sharper, nearly unfamiliar, and Arthur’s steps falter for the fraction of a second.

As soon as Merlin spots him though, he smiles, and the illusion breaks. Arthur would get out of bed at whatever hour of the night if it made Merlin smile like that.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m drunk, not sick, Arthur,” Merlin shoots back, even though his words are slightly slurred and his smile now growing into a grin.

Arthur shrugs. “You’re the med student. As long as you’re not going to throw up in my car, we’re good.”

The answering gesture is more flailing than dismissive, but the coiling fondness is still buzzing in Arthur’s chest and if he doesn’t have to speak all that much, all the better. The picture Merlin makes doesn’t help; his hair’s sticking up in several directions, and his eyes are too bright in the dim light. His lips are red and Arthur both loves and hates that he knows how Merlin tends to bite at them when he’s annoyed or nervous.

“Come on then, let’s get out of here, and tomorrow we can take care of your wallet.”

“’S only money,” Merlin mutters, though he still pulls a grimace. He also stumbles as soon as he tries to straighten up from the wall that was apparently holding him up, and Arthur’s hand reaches out to steady him before he’s made any conscious decision to do so.

Merlin leans on him as they walk to his car and even though Arthur knows that this way lies madness, he soaks in the warmth radiating off of him; the hint of aftershave that his brain has long since filed firmly under Merlin, and how Merlin’s fingers are tight on his hip.

He regrets a little that he has parked so close to the pub.

They don’t speak on the drive back to Arthur’s flat and neither when he half-drags Merlin up the stairs, but Merlin lets out a relieved sigh when the door falls shut behind them.

“I’m sorry for interrupting your quiet night, by the way,” Merlin says after a beat, glancing at Arthur. “You could’ve brought me home—”

“Don’t be stupid. You’d probably hit your head on something, or get sick in your sleep—”

“I’m drunk, not sick. We’ve been over this.”

“Yes, _Mer_ lin, and drunk people always have such an astute sense of judgement, don’t they?”

Finally, Merlin’s shoulders relax, and the smile he offers Arthur is soft. “Thank you,” he says, and they stare at each other until Merlin clears his throat and Arthur’s eyes skitter away. “Do you have a blanket and a pillow for the couch?”

Arthur knows he should say yes; should put Merlin on the couch in his living room and go to sleep, try to forget all about the way he’s looking at Arthur right now.

“Don’t be stupid,” is what he says, again, turning away to walk into the kitchen. “I meant what I said; what if you get sick?” —and it’s not even a lie, there really is still worry gnawing at his insides, assuring him more than a little insistently that he won’t get a second of sleep— “Just sleep in my bed. I’m going to read for a while longer anyway.”

“You’d let me get sick in your bed?” Merlin asks, amusement creeping into his voice, and Arthur’s just glad that his back is turned.

“You said you’re drunk, not sick.”

“Arthur, you’re not making any sense.”

“Just—go to sleep Merlin, alright? I promise I won’t bother you but—”

“ _Arthur_ ,” Merlin interrupts, and suddenly he’s so much closer, his fingers circling around Arthur’s wrist. “That’s not what I meant. _At all._ I just—” He huffs, his brows knitting together and his gaze flitting past Arthur. “I’d rather not be alone right now, and I don’t mean this in a hitting-on-you kind of way but if you could maybe—just—stay with me?”

Some of the tension that settled in Arthur’s shoulders when they entered the flat melts away. He bites down on a smile. “Go to bed, Merlin,” he repeats, but his voice is much softer, and Merlin squeezes his wrist once more before letting go.

It takes several deep breaths for his heart to settle back into a normal rhythm; to successfully tell himself that he’s reading too much into all of this and even if he’s not, that now isn’t the time to do anything about it.

Usually, he’s better at this, at having Merlin around. He wants to blame it on having been caught off guard, on the undercurrent of open vulnerability Merlin’s allowing him to witness, but it sounds like a poor excuse.

When he finally makes it into his bedroom with a glass of water and two painkillers in hand, Merlin’s already stretched out on one side of the bed. A tired smile curls his lips when he blinks up at Arthur, and all his carefully re-crafted defences crumble to dust.

“Take these,” Arthur says, pushing the water and the pills at him before dropping his phone on the bedside table.

Merlin does as he’s told and then returns to watching Arthur as he shrugs off his jumper.

“Are you sure that you’re okay with me sleeping in your bed? I know how you are about personal space,” Merlin says quietly, even though it’s obvious that he’d hate to move again, the blanket tucked tight around him.

“Stop worrying,” he says, smiling faintly. “I’d have told you if I minded, wouldn’t I?”

Merlin seems to consider this before he nods, pressing his head into the pillow and humming happily. “Thank you,” he says. “You know, for picking me up and being surprisingly kind about it too.”

“Saving it all for when you’re hungover tomorrow, of course,” Arthur says, and if it comes out rather forced, well—one advantage of the drunk is their absolute failure at observation.

Merlin snorts, his eyes following Arthur as he walks around the bed. “Read to me?”

Arthur twists where he’s sitting at his side to stare down at Merlin with raised brows. “You really want to hear Tolstoy to fall asleep?”

“You know, I do actually read for fun when I don’t have to drown myself in books on medicine and chemistry and—”

“Alright,” Arthur interrupts, shifting up until he’s leaning against the headboard. “As long as you’re not complaining.”

A small huff sounds from deep inside the blankets, and Merlin cracks an eye open, somehow still managing for his gaze to be unbearably fond. “It was your mother’s favourite book, Arthur. As if I’d ever complain even if I completely loathed it. Which, for the record, I do not.”

He has to swallow several times to get rid of the sudden lump in his throat, and he tries to cover it up by fiddling with the blankets and pillows. 

Eventually, though, he starts reading quietly, picking up where he’d left off when Merlin called him. Merlin rolls closer, not quite enough to touch but Arthur can feel the warmth radiating off of him, can hear the steady rhythm of his breathing, and he has to keep himself from reaching out.

It’s achingly domestic and nearly physically painful, how easily he could get used to this— _wants_ to get used to this, to silly pickups from the bar because Merlin lost his wallet or got too drunk, to the dim light of the city filtering lazily through the window painting Merlin soft, and to Merlin hogging half the blankets.

To Merlin knowing his favourite book and why, drifting off to sleep as Arthur retraces the words more from memory than from reading because he can’t help how his gaze strays to Merlin every other line.

*** * ***

Arthur wakes to the bed shifting, but something compels him to stay perfectly, carefully still. There’s morning light teetering through the curtains, painting kaleidoscopes behind his eyelids, and he wants to stay in this perfect limbo where he can expect to find Merlin still sprawled out next to him.

The edges of dreams and reality are still so blurred together, it takes him a moment to comprehend that the featherlight fingertips against his wrist belong to the latter. When he opens his eyes, Merlin’s smiling at him, small and tired.

His hair is wet though, curling around his ears, and even with the dark smudges underneath his eyes, he seems more awake than he has any right to.

“Hey,” Merlin murmurs, drawing his hand back.

Arthur misses the warmth but merely raises his brows. “How were you already under the shower when I only just woke up?”

“I never sleep well when drunk. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Sorry—”

“Don’t be stupid,” Merlin interrupts, affection creeping into his tone. “I did sleep better than I would’ve otherwise. Thank you for—well. Everything, really.”

The words sound weirdly final, and Arthur forces himself to become more awake. “Of course, you know that.”

Merlin hums and it melts into a sigh as he pushes himself to sit up. Reaching over, he offers a mug of coffee to Arthur even as he won’t meet his eyes.

Something uncomfortable settles in his stomach as he mirrors Merlin’s position, the last night replaying in his mind as he searches for the hitch that he could’ve missed. “Are you alright?” he asks when he can’t come up with anything, and he hates how Merlin’s smile turns slightly brittle around the edges.

“That depends,” Merlin mutters, biting down on his lip. “I—this is probably a really bad time to have this conversation, but when I woke up you were—you were just lying there, arm slung around my waist and I was—I couldn’t—”

Arthur’s throat goes dry, the words Merlin is going to say next already tumbling between them, and he knows, no matter how badly he wants to stop this, there’s no way short of making a run for it.

He should’ve taken the damned couch after all, just because neither of them is straight—

“I looked at you, and I thought, fuck, I want this. I want this not only after a night where I got too drunk to take care of myself like I’m still twenty and you had to pick me up, but I also want this as something—something more than a courtesy born out of worry. And I know you probably don’t, and I thought I’ve made my peace with that, but then sometimes, you look at me like—like—”

“Like I want that too?” Arthur says, his voice cracking, but he doesn’t care, can’t be bothered by something as inconsequential as the sound of his voice when the words between them are rearranging themselves into something else altogether. “Because I think—I _know_ , I know I do. Want that, that is, if it’s not only some friends with benefits-thing you’re talking about.”

Merlin laughs, disbelief and relief and something more tender coalescing into awe as he stares at Arthur, the mug in his hand precariously close to spilling over. Arthur takes it from him, puts it and his own on the bedside table before turning to Merlin.

His fingers are itching to reach out, his heart hammering against his ribs so madly, he’s sure Merlin must be able to hear it.

“I’m not. Not talking about something non-committal, that is, and I know I’m really springing this on you right now and I probably should’ve told you before I got ridiculously drunk—”

Arthur leans forward, ghosting his fingers over Merlin’s jaw and kisses him. Merlin’s lips are soft, yielding to him until Arthur lets out an involuntary whine and Merlin presses back against him.

He smells like Arthur’s shampoo, and it might be even better than his usual smell as it soothes something possessive and primal in Arthur’s gut.

Merlin’s fingers slide into his hair, tugging lightly to tip his head back and deepen the kiss. It’s a little like falling, like missing a step but finding solid ground after the drop; only the pinpricks of Merlin’s fingers curled tightly in his hair, of Merlin’s teeth sinking into his bottom lip, repel the conviction that he’s still dreaming. 

When they break apart, there’s a faint flush high on Merlin’s cheeks, but his eyes are bright and full of mischief. “I take that as a yes, then?”

Usually, Arthur would have a smart retort; would roll his eyes and grin and tell him, _really, Merlin, isn’t that obvious?_

Today, though, happiness and affection are threatening to spill out of him to fill up the whole room. His heart has taken up residence right up in his throat, and he can do nothing but lean in again, brush his lips over Merlin’s mouth and his jaw and his brows, whispering affirmations until he’s sure that Merlin’s never going to doubt it again, not even underneath all his teasing bravado.

* * *

> **_ii. —words of affirmation_ **

It takes nearly two minutes of insistent knocking until the door to Merlin’s flat flies open.

“What, I’m— _Arthur_?”

Arthur carefully takes in Merlin’s appearance; he’s dressed in washed-out tracksuits and a jumper that looks suspiciously like Arthur’s. His hair is even more of a mess than usual, only emphasizing the dark shadows underneath his eyes, and his fingers are clenched tightly around a book that’s propped open in one arm, big enough to kill a man with one hit.

“What are you doing here?” Merlin asks, and it would’ve come across as accusing if not for the confusion and worry that’s writing itself into the tired lines of his face.

“You didn’t forget anything, don’t worry. I know it’s your final exams.”

“Then what—”

“Making sure you don’t kill yourself through sheer exhaustion,” Arthur cuts in with a shrug, holding up a bag of Indian takeaway. “Let me in?”

It finally seems to snap Merlin out of his building panic and he nods, taking a rather unsteady step to the side.

“For how long have you been awake?”

Merlin frowns, his head tilting slightly as he stares down at the book as if it’s going to offer him the answer. “A while,” he finally says, the smile he offers Arthur strained. “I’ve only five days left, and Neurology has always been horrible for me to grasp, but I’ll need it, and—”

“ _Mer_ lin,” Arthur interrupts, dropping the food on the small table next to the door and stepping close. He takes the book against little resistance, making sure to not lose the page, and puts it down as well. “You’re going to remember more if you actually take breaks in between. And sleep; sleep is rather important too, as you should know.”

“I can’t just—”

As Merlin moves to grab the book again, Arthur wraps an arm around his waist and pulls him close. “Have dinner with me first?”

Merlin’s stiff in his grasp and Arthur wonders if he’s crossed a line. Merlin’s always been bordering on obsessive when it came to studying and before they got together, Arthur—like everyone else—tended to leave him alone except for the occasional food delivery.

Before he can pull back, Merlin sags in his hold, his head dropping to Arthur’s shoulder. “Yeah, you’re probably right. I’d love to.”

Exhaling a measured breath, Arthur skims his lips over Merlin’s temple. “Come on then,” he says, leaving one arm around Merlin’s waist and steering him into the kitchen.

“I think there are still some clean plates in the dishwasher. I’ve not really got around—”

Arthur stops him from moving towards the sink, pushing him into one of the chairs by the table. “Sit. I’ll find what I need.”

“But—”

“Just—let me?”

For a moment, it looks like Merlin’s going to protest, but then he smiles softly and drops his head onto his crossed arms on the table. “Thank you, truly.”

Humming, Arthur finds clean dishes and distributes the food before sitting down, mustering Merlin carefully. “You do look tired,” he finally says because while he may sometimes worry about where the lines between them are now, Merlin really, really does.

“I did try to sleep,” Merlin says around a bite of food, “but as soon as I fell asleep, I dreamt that I was caught in an oversized neural circuit and unable to get out until I named every single neuron. Which is just humanely impossible and doesn’t even make _sense_ , but I still woke up and felt like I’d forgotten everything I’ve ever known about brains and, well.”

It’s said with a dismissive shrug, but Merlin’s eyes are roaming through the kitchen, his fingers restless, as if he’s itching to grab his book even now.

“Merlin,” Arthur says, reaching across the table to still his fidgeting. “You’re going to do great. You’re one of the best in your year, and you’ve never failed an exam before. I know how important this is to you—”

“But—just _look_ at me,” Merlin huffs, annoyance bleeding into his voice. It’s clearly not directed at Arthur, the twist to his mouth more self-deprecating than anything else. “I can’t even take care of myself, how the hell are they going to let me at actual patients? I don’t remember when I’ve slept the last time, my last cooked meal has been days ago, and I still wouldn’t have one if my boyfriend wasn’t stubborn enough to insist on taking care of me.”

Merlin makes to pull his hand away, his shoulders rigid, and something in Arthur’s chest aches at the sheer stress pouring off of him.

Abandoning his food, he moves to kneel in front of Merlin, satisfied when the gesture gets his full attention. “Listen to me—you’re stressing out because you care. You don’t want to make mistakes, and I’m no expert on medicine, but I think putting a lot of weight on your eventual patient’s well-being is probably one of the most important qualities a doctor should have.”

“That doesn’t—”

“I said to listen, didn’t I?” Arthur cuts in, though he makes sure there’s no bite to it. “Of course, you also need to know what you’re doing. But you can neither study well nor take care of anyone else if you’re running yourself into the ground. This is not like you—you get nervous, sure, but you don’t panic, and at the risk of getting knocked out by that scary book of yours for saying this—you need to take a bloody break.”

Merlin stares at him, teeth worrying his bottom lip, and Arthur squeezes his hands more tightly. “You know I’m right. Go and take a shower, I’ll clean up a bit, and then we’re going to watch a stupid movie or read a book, and go to sleep. Tomorrow, you can get back to stuffing your brain with things I’ll never understand.”

Finally, a small grin tugs at Merlin’s lips, and he exhales in a rush. “Never thought I’d see the day where you admit that something could possibly be beyond you.”

Arthur rolls his eyes and gets to his feet, pulling Merlin with him. “Go and take a shower,” he says, pressing a kiss to Merlin’s temple.

“Are you saying I smell?”

“If it gets you to take a shower and stop worrying, I’d literally say anything right now.”

“You, Arthur Pendragon, are a menace,” Merlin laughs, but he brushes his lips against Arthur’s before leaving the kitchen.

*** * ***

Later, when they’re curled up in bed together, with Merlin half on top of Arthur while he’s reading out loud, Merlin brushes his nose against Arthur’s cheek and says, “Thank you. I’m sorry you had to deal with my nerves, it doesn’t usually get this bad.”

Turning his head, Arthur cards his fingers through the hair at the nape of Merlin’s neck and grins softly. “All I ask for is to be remembered in your lifework’s footnotes as the one who carried you to fame.”

Merlin laughs, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Just for that, I’m going to credit you exclusively as _the anonymous prat who refused to leave me alone to pursue my sheer genius.”_

Anything Arthur would’ve had to say to that gets lost when Merlin ducks his head to kiss him. He does remember thinking that he’d be ready to take care of Merlin and never get any credit, if only he gets to keep this.

* * *

> **iii. —gifts**

Merlin’s more stumbling than walking when he exits the building where he’s just defended his dissertation, and Arthur ducks his head to hide the fond smile tugging at his lips.

“I’m _done_ ,” Merlin proclaims when he’s only a few feet away, and then all but collapses against Arthur. “I’m fucking done, and I don’t even care about my foundation placement anymore—I don’t want to hear about anything related to medicine ever again.”

Arthur laughs, wrapping an arm around his waist. “Hello to you too. I might just have bad news about your future plans.”

“Don’t be a prat,” Merlin scolds, lifting his head from Arthur’s shoulder to glare at him. “Or I’ll have to remind you of the excessive whining you’ve done over the past few weeks yourself.”

Knowing that this is a fight he cannot possibly win, Arthur brushes his lips against Merlin’s before steering them into the direction of where he parked his car. “I have a surprise for you.”

The combination of how Merlin perks up while his eyes narrow in suspicion at the same time has no right to be as endearing as it is.

“ _Please_ tell me there isn’t a surprise party waiting for me at home.”

Arthur gasps and presses his free hand against his chest in feigned hurt. “Do you really think so little of me?”

“No, but I do know your sister.”

Unfortunately, he has a point. Fortunately, Arthur has firmly shut down any and all attempts at meddling from either Morgana or their group of friends.

“No party, I promise. In fact, no going home either.”

“Arthur—”

“Listen to me first?”

There’s still a hint of suspicion lingering in Merlin’s eyes, but he’s also smiling and clearly trying to hide his amusement, so Arthur takes it as a win.

Still, he’s not going to make it this easy, so he draws it out until they’re sitting inside the car.

“Now tell me, you overly secretive prat, or I’ll call my mother and accuse you of attempted kidnapping.”

“Attempted?”

“Oh please, as if I’d let you.”

Arthur laughs, and some of the tension that’s been building for weeks between studying until his brain threatened to leak out of his ears and seeing decidedly too little of Merlin slowly seeps out of his shoulders.

“And your mother is going to help you how?” he asks as he starts the car, glancing at Merlin out of the corner of his eye and drinking in the content smile on his face.

It turns into more of a smirk at Arthur’s question. “You’ve met my mother, Arthur. She can instil the fear of God in men who have never set foot in a church their entire life. Are you really going to underestimate her?”

“Fair enough,” he allows, pulling into the street that’ll eventually get them out of London. “But even your mother—”

“ _Arthur_.”

“Alright, alright, you impatient idiot,” he says, sobering slightly. “We’re going up to Scotland for the weekend.”

A pause. “Scotland?”

Merlin sounds mostly curious, but it’s less that Arthur fears he’d be against the idea and more about the meaning of where exactly they’re going.

He’s been planning to take Merlin for a while though, and he prays that his voice won’t shake as much as he fears it will. “My mother had a small cottage up on the coast that she left to me. I know it’s not the dream spot for a vacation in early summer, but it’s—well—”

When he doesn’t go on, Merlin reaches over, his fingers skimming along Arthur’s neck. “But it’s been nearly a year since we started dating, and this is the perfect anniversary gift.”

Leave it to Merlin to know exactly when to shift from teasing to quiet affection, and if Arthur wasn’t currently driving, he might’ve just shown him right that moment how much he loves him for it.

Some uncertainty is still brimming underneath his skin though. He keeps his eyes stubbornly on the road, fingers too tight around the steering wheel when he says, “If you had plans or don’t want to—”

“It’s perfect, you clotpole,” Merlin interrupts, fingers pressing against the back of Arthur’s head in reassurance. “I want nothing more than to have a few quiet days with you, your pompous ego, and the Scottish countryside for company.”

The last remains of uncertainty vanish into thin air, and Arthur takes one hand off the wheel to squeeze Merlin’s leg. “I think you’re going to like it.”

Merlin hums, relaxing into his seat as he watches London rush past them. “I like anything as long as it involves a lot of you and no books on med-school.”

“So, I’m the lesser evil?”

Merlin doesn’t throw back a ready retort though. He turns his head, watching Arthur for a few beats before saying softly, “I mean it. This is the perfect gift, and the fact that you’re taking me to your mother’s house means a lot. It’s your graduation too, and I know—”

“I’m looking forward to this as much as you do,” Arthur interrupts because it’s either that or risking to start crying and never making it to Scotland.

As usual, Merlin doesn’t seem too bothered by Arthur’s consideration of self-preservation, proving instead once again that he can read Arthur all too well. “Just because economics isn’t your passion, doesn’t mean that you shouldn’t be proud.”

And Arthur knows he’s right, knows that he’s made too many concessions and sacrifices to not at least value where it got him. But he looks at Merlin with his convictions and his fervour and can’t help but feel that it’s a hollow victory.

Squeezing Merlin’s knee once more before letting go, he offers him a small smile. “Let’s not talk about work the following days. I remember rather vividly your vows about being done with medicine for the foreseeable future.”

They both know that there’s more to it, but Merlin merely hums again, his hand steady on Arthur’s neck as they leave London behind.

*** * ***

When they’re standing at the shore just as the sun is setting, Merlin wrapped around him, Arthur thinks that it’s going to be alright. This is the deal, after all—he gets to have Merlin while Uther looks the other way, gets to be himself at least in this part of his life, as long as he’ll join the company as has been planned for him since birth.

And he’d never contemplate exchanging Merlin for anything in this world, but sometimes, sometimes he wishes that he wouldn’t have to choose at all.

* * *

> **iv. —quality time**

“If you tell me I told you so—”

“You have a broken wrist, _Mer_ lin, I’m not sure you realise that it makes you even less threatening than you are on the best of days.”

“It wasn’t _my_ fault!”

“Who the hell rides their bike when the streets are iced?”

Merlin huffs, making a move as if to cross his arms over his chest but aborting the motion with a wince. “Well, it’s only a ten-minute-ride, I thought I’d be fine.”

“Clearly _not_. And it’s alongside one of the main roads, who knows what could’ve—”

Someone clearing their throat behind him makes Arthur break off, and he turns around to look at the nurse who’s standing in the doorway to the waiting room. She’s glancing between the two of them with a crease between her brows and it occurs to Arthur how this must look.

“Mr Emrys?” she asks, glancing at Arthur again as she steps into the room, and God, Arthur really shouldn’t have started ranting the moment he arrived.

Before he can say anything to reassure her that he’s not, in fact, a total arse or worse, Merlin smiles softly. “It’s fine, he’s just worried.”

Affection swells in his chest, and it must show on his face because the nurse visibly relaxes.

“The x-ray shows it’s only a micro-fissure, so there’s no need for surgery. With a cast and avoiding unnecessary strain, it should be fine in four to five weeks.”

While Arthur feels like he can breathe properly for the first time since Merlin called him at work—and no matter how much he theoretically knew that the wrist was the worst of it, hospitals just have that effect on him—Merlin still pulls a grimace.

He doesn’t argue though, and Arthur stays in the background as he gets the cast, his meds, and the appointments for the necessary check-ups.

“Do you have any food at home?” Arthur asks when they sit in the car, and mentally he’s already making a list of things they’ll need.

Merlin stills where he’s struggling with the seat belt. “I can just order something.”

Deciding to not deign this with an answer, Arthur merely shakes his head and starts the car. It’s quiet between them as Arthur drives, and he wonders how long it’s going to take Merlin until—

“I was serious, you know.”

Ah yes, and there it is. Arthur suppresses a smile and keeps his eyes fixed firmly on the road. “If you think for even a second that I’m just going to drop you off at your flat, you really are the idiot I like to call you so often.”

“It’s just a broken wrist, Arthur, and not even a badly broken one,” Merlin says, but he fails spectacularly at keeping the fondness out of his tone.

“Of course, and I’m sure as an esteemed doctor yourself—”

“In training, Arthur, I’ve only just started my first foundation year—”

“—you know all about just how well someone manages their everyday life with their dominant hand being out of use, don’t you?”

Merlin huffs a silent breath of laughter, and Arthur can feel his eyes on him. “And what are you supposed to do about it? You’ve got to go back to work tomorrow. I’ll probably call my mom and ask if she can come up for a few days.”

“I’ve already told my father that I won’t be in until you’re better,” Arthur says, and as much as he tries for it to come across nonchalant, he knows that he’s missing by a mile.

Truth be told, the second Arthur had heard the words _accident_ and _hospital_ , his brain kind of short-circuited; he does remember saying something to his father, remembers not even letting him get a word in edgewise before he was out of the office, but it doesn’t really matter.

The company is not going to fall into ruins if he’s absent for two weeks, and he can’t even remember the last time he had more than a weekend off.

Merlin’s still staring at him, lips parted and eyes wide in astonishment and it would’ve been insulting if Arthur didn’t know that they gave him a healthy dose of painkillers.

“We’re going to get a truly ridiculous amount of food now, and then we’re going to hole up in your flat, finally get around to that Star Wars marathon we keep talking about, maybe re-watch the good episodes of Doctor Who—”

“They’re _all_ good,” Merlin interrupts, and of course _that_ would be what finally snaps him out of it.

“—and I’m going to apply my mediocre cooking skills to your kitchen, to then save the day by ordering more food,” Arthur finishes, glancing at Merlin again. “That is if you’ll have me, of course.”

Merlin laughs again, his uninjured hand finding the back of Arthur’s neck. “Are you kidding? That nearly makes me think that I should crash my bike more often, you prat.”

Taking his eyes off the road solely to spare Merlin a glare, he growls a quiet, “Don’t you dare.”

Merlin’s fingers thread into the nape of his hair in silent reassurance, and while Arthur would rather never get such a phone call again, he’d be lying if he said that he wasn’t looking forward to the following weeks.

He’s just parking the car at the Sainsbury close to Merlin’s flat when Merlin’s hand slides down his arm, curling around his wrist.

“Thank you,” he says, quiet, much more serious than he’s been ever since Arthur stormed into the hospital. “I’m glad that I have you.”

The warmth rushing through him finally chases away the last shards of fear still buried in his chest. Knowing his voice would break if he tried to speak right now, he simply squeezes Merlin’s hand and vows to buy a mountain of Liquorice Allsorts for Merlin and not complain once about how disgusting they are.

* * *

> **v.** **—touch**

Arthur’s at lunch with Morgana when his phone vibrates on the table. It’s nothing unusual, of course, but something compels him to flip it over and unlock the screen, even as it earns him an exasperated huff from Morgana.

He barely notices, staring down at the sender with a frown. He’s known Lancelot for months now, but merely through Merlin as they work together. He and Arthur are not in the habit of contacting each other.

“Sorry Morgana, I just—”

“Yes, sure, talk to your boyfriend,” she teases, but he doesn’t pay her any attention as he reads the message.

_Hey Arthur, do you think you could pick Merlin up from work? I’m sorry to just spring this on you, but he’s had a horrible shift and I don’t trust him to make it home on his own in one piece. I still have six hours left, and you’re the only one I thought who would be a good idea to ask._

He’s half out of his seat before he knows what he’s doing, and Morgana must be seeing something on his face because she simply waves him off and calls after him to drive carefully.

The drive ends up being mostly a blur, and he finds Merlin already standing just outside of the hospital entrance. He has his arms wrapped around himself and he looks small in a way that stirs a deep sense of wrongness in Arthur’s gut.

It takes longer than usual for him to notice Arthur too, and then another few seconds until the blank expression on his face crumbles and he staggers a step forward.

If Arthur’s honest, he can’t remember ever feeling this out of his depth around Merlin, but he just wraps his arms around him and holds him close; if it’s as much for his own sake as it is for Merlin’s, it really doesn’t matter.

Merlin’s trembling underneath his palms, his breathing uneven and hitching, and Arthur thinks he would be crying if he let himself. The thought of Merlin, who wears his heart on his sleeve for the world to see, struggling to hold on to his composure, is what finally gets him to pull back.

“Come on, let’s get you home,” he murmurs, tugging lightly on a strand of Merlin’s hair that’s growing too long again.

Merlin only nods, but he doesn’t let go of Arthur’s hand until they reach the car.

Arthur has to force himself to keep his eyes on the road, and he’s never been so grateful for how close Merlin’s flat is to the hospital. He also sends a silent but heartfelt thank you to Lancelot for texting him when he has to half-carry Merlin up the stairs.

As soon as the door closes behind them, Merlin makes a wretched sound, and Arthur has his arms wrapped around him again before either of them had the chance to get out of their jackets.

Merlin’s whole body shudders with the sobs tearing out of him, and his fingers clench so tightly into Arthur’s back that it stings even through the layers he’s wearing.

The questions are burning on Arthur’s tongue and his stomach is tying itself into knots with worry, but he doesn’t say anything, only keeps his arms wrapped around Merlin and rubs circles into his back.

He has his suspicions, though; Merlin’s currently placed in A&E, and it was only a matter of time until something happened. If he’s right and Merlin lost his first patient, his state isn’t all that surprising, but it doesn’t lessen the ache in Arthur’s chest.

It takes a while, but Merlin eventually calms, his weight sagging against Arthur.

Loosening his hold slightly, he runs his fingers through Merlin’s hair and tips his head back. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Merlin swallows, his eyes roaming over Arthur’s face as if searching for an answer. “You already know, don’t you?”

“It’s not about me though.”

The answering smile is nothing but a poor mimicry, and Arthur presses his lips against Merlin’s forehead. “Come on—”

Merlin makes a noise in the back of his throat, something suspiciously like a whine, and his grip on Arthur tightens.

“Don’t worry, I wouldn’t leave you alone right now if you threatened me. We’re going to take a shower, then I’ll order food and we go to bed,” Arthur says softly, and he waits until Merlin exhales a deep sigh and nods before he pulls him into the direction of the small bathroom.

He only turns on the small light on the mirror, and when Merlin fails to unbutton his shirt for the third time, gently pushes his hands away.

Neither of them says anything as Arthur undresses them both, but Merlin’s leaning against him and lets himself be moved under the water without any protest.

By now, it seems to be more exhaustion than anything else, and Arthur knows, knows with more surety than he has for himself some days, that Merlin will be alright.

Still, there’s something almost painfully fragile to him now, with his head resting on Arthur’s shoulder and fingers tight on his hips, and Arthur wishes he could shield him from the world.

He can’t, though, can only massage shampoo into Merlin’s hair, careful and slow, and wash away the smell of disinfectant and hospital that Merlin always claims is clinging to him. Can only wrap him into a towel and then move them both to bed, pulling Merlin close and murmur nonsense until he falls asleep.

When he wakes, he’ll tell Arthur what happened, and Arthur will have no idea what to possibly say, will stumble over his words and thank the gods that he can at least do this, and that it seems to be enough.

* * *

> **\+ i. —a little of them all**

Arthur’s hands are clenched so tightly around the steering wheel, his knuckles have gone white, and he’s lost any feeling in his fingers since—a while ago. However long he’s been sitting here, staring down the driveway with its gravel that’s torn open his knees and palms as a child more times than he can count.

The driveway he’s not supposed to ever set foot on again as far as his father is concerned, not if he does what he wants to do. What he _needs_ to do if he doesn’t want to go insane, to turn into a bitter man who pushes away everyone and everything good for him.

If he doesn’t want to turn into his father, and it should be ironic, but it mostly leaves him with an acrid taste in the back of his throat and indecision he’s rarely known.

It’s why he’s still here, sitting in his car and staring at the twisted iron gates of the estate. As much as he tries to tell himself that it’s because he’s in no condition to drive—and he’s really, really not, his breath short and the world blurring before his eyes—a part of him is still waiting.

As if either Arthur or his father have ever been known to change their minds.

A light knock against the window next to him nearly makes him jump out of his skin, and when he finds Merlin looking down at him with concern knitting his brows together, he briefly wonders if he’s finally losing it.

It’s swiftly followed by a wave of relief so staggering, it renders him frozen. Merlin’s clearly not in a patient mood though because he rolls his eyes and opens the door. “Come on, get out.”

Arthur complies without really knowing what he’s doing, but at least he manages an only vaguely choked, “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I was in the neighbourhood.”

“And what would bring you to _Knightsbridge_ , of all places?” Arthur asks, raising a brow when Merlin shrugs with feigned nonchalance.

“Stuff,” Merlin says, but then he’s pulling Arthur into a hug and he finds that he couldn’t care less why Merlin’s here as long as he is.

They stand in silence for a while, and it never fails to amaze him how Merlin can soothe him with a simple touch. Sure, he’s still miserable, but at least the world stopped shattering and crumbling around him, once piece at a time.

“Morgana called me,” Merlin eventually says, pulling back just far enough to muster Arthur. “I take it that it didn’t go well?”

Arthur can’t help the sardonic snort, as little as he can help the way his vision blurs. Again.

Whatever Merlin means to say is cut off when the door to the house slams open behind them, and his father’s voice whips through the air between them, cold and unforgiving. “What are you still doing here? And what is _he_ doing here? Don’t you think you’ve shoved your failures into my face enough today?”

It’s impossible for Merlin to miss his answering flinch, and he’s shifted his weight to stand in front of Arthur before there’s even a hint of a chance to stop him. Maybe, Arthur thinks, he doesn’t want to stop him either; people tend to underestimate Merlin, but he can be truly terrifying when angry and Arthur’s not feeling particularly charitable right now.

“You do know that normal parents want their children to be happy, not become as miserable as they are?” Merlin asks, and it’s nearly conversational if not for the quiet edge to his tone.

His father bristles, drawing himself up. “You _dare_ —”

“I’m not scared of you, Uther Pendragon,” Merlin interrupts coolly. “You’re a tyrant in and outside of your home, and Arthur’s a much better man than you are. How he’s ever accomplished that with only your rotten self as an example, no one will ever know, but by God, he is. If he doesn’t want to spend the rest of his life pulling money out of rich people’s pockets to give it to even richer people, then there’s absolutely nothing you can do about it. There’s nothing you should _want_ to do about it, but I suppose lectures on parenting are long lost on you.”

It’s a rare sight, to see his father speechless. It would be so much more satisfying if Arthur wasn’t barely holding it together right now, and the deepening colour of Uther’s face is a sure sign that it won’t last long.

“Come on, let’s go,” he says quietly, curling his fingers around Merlin’s wrist. He can feel his pulse racing beneath the thin skin, and the way Merlin burns with anger, for _him_ , chases some of the coldness out of his veins.

At his touch, Merlin exhales slowly but doesn’t hesitate. He turns away from Uther with blatant disregard, and there are apologies etched into the lines around his eyes that Arthur wants to smooth away.

“I’m driving,” Merlin says with a pointed look, and Arthur doesn’t have it within himself to protest.

Of course, his father has never been one to miss out on having the last word. “If you go through with this foolish idea to become a _teacher_ ,” he spits, somehow making the very word sound foul, “you won’t have anything. No allowance, no job, no family.”

Merlin stiffens beside him, his fingers clenching where they’re still wrapped around Arthur’s hand.

It’s not the first time Arthur’s heard this today, but it doesn’t leave him any less breathless with dread.

“He will always have a family. For a change, it’s one that loves and appreciates him.”

There’s a pause, and then—“You have a week to decide.”

The front door shuts close with finality, and Arthur barely remembers how he makes it inside the car.

Once he sits, Merlin closes his eyes, his fingers drumming against the steering wheel. “I’m sorry,” he finally says, glancing over at Arthur. “I know it’s not my battle to fight or my place to say these things—”

“Thank you,” Arthur interrupts, quiet and hoarse, and he can’t hold Merlin’s gaze, not if he doesn’t want to break apart in his father’s driveway, but Merlin seems to understand anyway.

“You’re going to be alright. _We’re_ going to be alright.”

And just because Merlin says it, doesn’t make it true. Yet, Arthur believes him.

*** * ***

They spend the weekend holed up in Merlin’s flat, and they don’t talk about it. It’s not avoidance; it’s just that Arthur needs time to think, and Merlin’s always been good at giving him space even when he’s right there.

They read three Pratchett books—and yes, _Mer_ lin, Mort is still better than the Night Watch no matter how much you empathize the parts you consider best—eat a truly unhealthy amount of takeaway, and barely leave the bed, much less turn on their phones.

Monday does come eventually, with the creeping inevitability that always leaves you surprised regardless, and while Arthur’s _on leave_ , as his father called it, Merlin does have a late shift.

They’re sitting over lunch at the rickety kitchen table under the window, and Arthur’s creating pro and contra lists and calculations in his head that he’s avoided over the last few days.

Merlin hooks his ankles around Arthur’s. “You know I’ll support you no matter what you decide, right? Even if I’m not—your father’s biggest fan.”

A few words shouldn’t be enough to make Arthur’s heart feel too big for his chest, and yet he has to avert his eyes if he doesn’t want to choke up.

“I know,” he says because he does. Swallowing, he traces the nicks and lines in the wood of the table, trying to order his thoughts. “To be honest, I’m mostly worried about the money. I can get a job in accounting, but it would be only part-time if I want to go back to uni and probably not pay the tuition fee, a flat, and the living costs.”

Merlin hums and when Arthur looks up after the silence has stretched uncharacteristically long, he’s gnawing at his bottom lip without meeting Arthur’s eyes. “I was thinking…”

When he doesn’t go on, Arthur nudges his foot underneath the table, curiosity and the faintest hint of worry making him impatient.

There’s another beat, and then Merlin straightens slightly, finally meeting Arthur’s eyes. “I’ve been thinking about moving for a while. I mean—I don’t really have to live in a flat fit for a student anymore and I—but—”

“Are you suggesting that I take over you flat?”

“I—what?” Merlin asks, tension giving way to confusion before he rolls his eyes. “No, you utter prat, I’m trying to ask you if you’d like to move in together. Not here, obviously, and not into your flat either, but something new. Because I like when you’re here, like waking up next to you, and obviously you don’t have to say yes. I know you like your space and I swear I won’t be angry or anything, but it would also solve some of your money problems, and—”

“Shut up,” Arthur interrupts, and he might as well have said _I love you,_ for how unbearably fond it comes out. “Shut up and come here, you impossible idiot.”

Merlin’s laughter is bright, and he stumbles over his feet in his haste to get out of his chair, landing in Arthur’s lap with more force than is strictly comfortable.

He barely notices, fingers already twisting into Merlin’s hair to pull him into a slow kiss. Merlin’s weight is grounding, numbers and pros and contras—especially the contras, few as they were—evaporating into figures of smoke.

It ends way too soon, but Merlin’s staring down at him with sombre eyes, his fingers smoothing Arthur’s hair back from his face. “You know that I’m not asking you to influence your decision, or only because of the money, right?”

The question is quiet, and heavy with meaning. Sometimes Arthur forgets that he’s not the only one between the two of them who can be unsure of himself, and he ghosts his lips over Merlin’s.

“I know,” he says, smiling softly. “But I want to. Whatever decision I’m going to make, I want to.”

*** * ***

It’s not as easy as that, of course. Arthur still has a choice to make, and it’s not one about what work he wants to do.

His father is nothing if not a stubborn man and Arthur knows that he’ll not only make good on his promise to cut off any support but any contact too. As much as their relationship has always been difficult at best, Arthur’s not sure if teaching is worth losing his second parent.

But he also knows that Merlin has a point; endless evenings spent together talking it over, and in the end, it always comes down to this—his father shouldn’t dictate his life, shouldn’t try to bribe and pressure him into being something he doesn’t want to be. Shouldn’t have the power to make such demands, to make Arthur _choose_.

In the end, it’s a choice between losing his father or risk losing everything else because Arthur’s never been good at not taking his frustration out on those close to him, no matter how many times Merlin promises that he’ll always be there.

In the end, it’s not a choice at all.

*** * ***

Uther takes it with cold eyes and a stoic nod, and Arthur’s not sure if he should be thankful or disappointed that there isn’t more of a fight. Something shatters within him at the dismissal, something looking suspiciously like a small figurine of fragile, lingering hope he wasn’t even aware still existed.

But it also makes it easier to turn his back and walk away. To leave the few things Uther could still claim of him—the keys to the manor, his work badge, the papers for his car that had been a gift—on the imposing desk of Uther’s office without looking back.

It allows him to go through the motions of clearing out the last boxes of his flat, to hand in his credentials to the new company that was more than happy to take him on part-time, to buy the books for his second degree.

Merlin’s a steady constant at his side, fingers featherlight around Arthur’s wrist or steady against his neck. He’s the only thing keeping him from unravelling at the seams, steering off Morgana who’s more furious than Arthur, Gwen with her well-meaning compassion that leaves him feeling cornered, and Gwaine’s persuasion to drown it all in alcohol.

There’s no doubt that he would’ve never done this without Merlin, that this would’ve never been worth it without him. That he’d do it a hundred times over if he had to.

When they finally find a flat that they both like, not too small but not too big either, when they’d built up most of the furniture and at least started to make it a home, the happiness on Merlin’s face is what’s keeping him upright.

“I have something for you,” Merlin says on the first night, both of them curled up on the couch in the living room, shelves half-filled with what makes up both of their lives; books on medicine and economics and teaching next to fantasy and classics, video games and DVD’s and picture frames scattered in the spaces between.

The blanket Merlin’s mother made for him is thrown over their shoulders, and Arthur’s carding his fingers through Merlin’s hair.

“Shouldn’t we both be getting house-warming gifts from our friends?” 

Merlin smiles, a small, private thing, and he bends over the armrest of the couch to reach for something.

It’s a box, looking like all the others still scattered around their flat, and Arthur raises his brows. “If that’s your idea of a joke, I'm going to—”

“Shut up, you ungrateful prat,” Merlin says with a laugh, but his fingers are fidgeting on the edges of the carton and he hesitates before shoving it into Arthur’s reach. “I—I wasn’t sure, but…”

Arthur spares him another glance before lifting the lid, and his breath stutters. “Is this—?” he asks, not waiting for an answer as he carefully lifts the first vinyl out.

One by one, he reads the artists, the albums, until he can’t see any more from the tears burning in his eyes.

Merlin moves closer, wrapping an arm around his waist and tucking his chin over Arthur’s shoulder. “They’re not hers, but they’re all the ones she had. Morgana kept sneaking off when she visited Uther to note down the titles, and except for one, I found all of them.”

It’s too much, all the pent-up emotions of weeks upon weeks pouring out over the old works of the Dire Straits and Eric Clapton, of artists his mother had loved and whose music had only ever played in their house on the rarest of days.

Uther had never been willing to share the pieces he still had of Ygraine with Arthur, and maybe that’s where the first spidery fissure appeared, starting to crack the whole of them.

“Hey,” Merlin says softly, tugging until he turns towards him. Arthur can’t look at him, but Merlin’s fingers still brush over his cheeks, lips pressing against Arthur’s temple. “I didn’t mean to make you cry, you know. Though I guess it’s a good thing you do at some point.”

A wet laugh startles out of him, and he leans forward until he can press his face in the crook of Merlin’s neck. “Thank you,” he murmurs against the soft stretch of skin, letting himself fall apart while Merlin runs his fingers through his hair, silently promising to put him back together too.

It takes a while until he calms down again, but the expected embarrassment doesn’t follow.

“Better?” Merlin finally asks, and Arthur makes a non-committal sound because he’s nothing if not contrary. “I really didn’t mean to—”

Arthur kisses him, trying to tell him all the things he doesn’t have the words for. “I love it,” he murmurs into the minuscule space between them before pressing close again.

When they break apart, Merlin’s smiling, his eyes bright in the dim light of the candles flickering on the table. “Are you happy?” he asks, not a loaded question but merely a gentle reassurance as he traces Arthur’s cheekbones with his thumbs.

Pressing a kiss to Merlin’s forehead, he hums before pulling him closer.

“More than I could possibly explain.”

Arthur will never understand what he’s done to deserve this, but he’d do anything, anything at all to get to keep it.

_**The End.** _

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously, the individual sections don't have one love language exclusively but overlap. It's more the theme I was going with here. I hope you liked it! ❤️ 
> 
> You can also find me on [Tumblr.](https://queerofthedagger.tumblr.com/%22)


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